A Warrior
by DocJorgensen
Summary: Sherlock Holmes reflects on certain traits of Dr. John Watson, over the course of their acquaintance.
1. Marked

**Title: **A Warrior Marked

**Author name:** Doc Jorgensen  
**Category:** Angst  
**Characters: **Sherlock Holmes, Dr. John Watson

**Ships: **None.

**Rating:** K  
**Spoilers:** None  
**Summary: **Holmes is surprised by what he sees when he accompanies Watson to the Turkish baths the first time.

**DISCLAIMER:** I own naught, alas. Sir Arthur, forgive my sacrilege in playing with your beloved characters.  
**Author Notes:** Exam week draws upon me and my muse is spinning plot bunnies out of control. Oh well…

_**Dedication:**__ To A.M., for him all is over. _

_Outposts_

_…Only days of monotone,_

_Sand and fever, flies and fret,_

_All unheeded and unknown,_

_Little thanks they're like to get._

_Yet mayhap in after-days_

_Distant eye the clearer sees_

_Gods apportioning the praise_

_Shall be kindly unto these._

…_A. L. JENKINS; ADEN, 1916._

I must admit, I was surprised when Watson asked me to accompany him to the Baths. After all we had only been lodging together for a few scant months, but I was agreeable enough, for the sake of his company, not despite it. He was a most pleasant companion to my own surprise, I had thought him simple but I was enlightened.

It was then that I discovered how wrong, terribly wrong that I had been about my companion.

It happened when we were undressing, that first I saw a scant glance of pink scars. Watson turned, ashamed, I should think. I turned my gaze aside but my curiosity was piqued.

Whilst we were in the baths, I turned my gaze towards him. Even in the dense white strings of smoke that drifted upwards from the water, I could still see clearly.

See so very clearly the cost of defeat.

And surely, I mused bitterly, the cost of victory.

Some of his scars were silvery-grey with age, the skin smooth with healing. A curving line along his ribs and downwards, no doubt ending over his hip. On his arms and abdomen. Others, like the scars on his shoulder were still pink and raw-looking, the edges of skin puckered and rippled.

I could see well enough with my own eyes to see that Watson could never be the man he once was, no matter the length of time. He was a warrior marked, transfigured by war, and disfigured by hell. I said nothing, for I could say nothing, nothing that could change the past or assuage my sense of guilt.

But afterward, ensconced in Baker Street, when I had played violin and Watson dozed on the settee, I rested my hand gently and tenderly on his shoulder for several instants before withdrawing silently.

He was a warrior marked, that is to be certain. But in the Latin;

_Pro Patria Pugnaverat Interfecerat et Laesus Erat, sed erat tamen herus._

_For the fatherland he had fought, had killed and had been wounded, but he was yet a hero. _Unblemished.


	2. Sleeps

**Title: **Sleeps

**Author name: **DocJorgensen  
**Category**: Angst, Hurt/Comfort  
**Characters: **Sherlock Holmes, Dr. John Watson

**Ships: **None

**Rating:** K  
**Spoilers:** EMPT (if you really look for it).  
**Summary: **Holmes is startled by Watson's dreams.

**DISCLAIMER:** I own naught, alas. Sir Arthur, forgive my sacrilege in playing with your beloved characters.  
**Author Notes:** Exam week still. Author being driven slowly, ever so slowly mad. But I am here, ready and waiting with my Oxford War Poetry, Muse in Arms, Bible and of course, the Complete Sherlock Holmes.

The _game _is afoot.

_**Dedication:**__ For TBC, who will never know the impact that he has made. _

When you see millions of the mouthless dead

Across your dreams in pale battalions go,

…Then, scanning all the o'ercrowded mass, should you

Perceive one face that you loved heretofore,

It is a spook. None wears the face you knew.

Great death has made all his for evermore.

…Charles Hamilton Sorley

London slept, but I did not. It was a hot, humid day which had fallen as hot days are wont to do, into a hot, humid night.

But I did not sleep.

For how could I? With such dreams passing before my eyes. It was a well known fact to me that Watson suffered nightmares. They caused undue amounts of embarrassment to him, but I knew.

I said nothing, nor did I do anything. Then, it was not my burden to bear.

I doubt very much if Mrs. Hudson knew. But my room was not so far detached from his that I could not hear him, restlessly calling into the night. The low moans and screams, muffled, ever so quickly muffled, for fear anyone else might hear the slight breech in his deportment.

But I did.

"MURRAY! Murray…" He would scream then whisper brokenly, his voice harsh and cracking. I knew not who Murray was, that name which tortured him so, only that I had never made his acquaintance.

But there was a night, far removed from this one, when I crept silently into his room, one hand on the door frame. Watching as he thrashed in his blanket and sheets, shaking almost convulsively, his forehead beaded with sweat. I did not reach for the hand he clutched the sheet with, nor soothe back the matted hair.

I did not yet know well enough my Watson.

But I do indeed now.

Three years of grief had changed he, and I along with him.

I gently laid down Watson's hand, as he slept silently. Leaning over, I placed a kiss on his forehead before turning and silently padding down the stairs.

For how could I do otherwise?

For now it was my name that he called out in tortured sleep.

"Holmes…"

"He who is a friend is always a friend,

and a brother is born for the time of stress."

…Proverbs 17:17


	3. Bleeds

**Title: **Bleeds

**Author name:** DocJorgensen  
**Category**: Angst  
**Characters: **Sherlock Holmes, Dr. John Watson

**Ships: **None

**Rating:** K+  
**Spoilers:** None  
**Summary: **Holmes finds out the true meaning of 'Physician, heal thyself.'

**DISCLAIMER:** Alas, I own nothing, Sir Arthur, and I plead your forgiveness.  
**Author Notes:** Finally I feel the urge to work on this story. 3rd in my A Warrior story.

_**Dedication:**__ To John T., for even in death, it does not stop the bleeding. _

_Men that have marched with me and men that I have led  
Shall know and feel the things that I have only read,  
Shall know what thing it is to sleep beneath the skies  
And to expect their death what time the sun shall rise.  
Men that have marched with me shall march to peace again,  
Bringing for plunder home glad memories of pain,  
Of toils endured and done, of terrors quite brought under,  
And all the world shall be their plaything and their wonder.  
Then in that new-born world, unfriendly and estranged,  
I shall be quite alone, I shall be left unchanged._

…_**On Account of Ill Health**__**  
**__by__ Edward Shanks_

I myself am not a squeamish man; indeed, I have on several occasions been seen as morbid and macabre.

It was the end of a successful case, except for a slight wound in the shoulder of my dear Watson. I had sent him in a cab to Baker Street, sure that he would do no more than call a medico friend for assistance. I proceeded to finish the business at Scotland Yard, explaining everything to all and sundry.

It was when I stepped onto first step of the stairwell that I experienced the first cold pangs of unease. I could see nothing out of place, hear nothing and yet…some sixth sense made my foot falter searching for the next step.

I proceeded more quickly up the stairwell, nearly at a sprint and threw myself into the room, making the door shudder with the force that I had slammed it with. My eyes widened in disbelief.

There was no doctor, no aid. Only Watson. Poor, selfless Watson.

Even as I watched he drew another stitch through his flesh, pulling it tight, making no noise at the obvious pain. Tying it off one-handed, he drew through another stitch. He paused, wiping away the blood.

"Watson?" He looked up. His eyes were clear and blue, untroubled by the actions that he was performing.

"Holmes. Are you back so soon?" There was no ampoule of pain relief, no morphine nearby. As I have said, I am, by no means a squeamish man, but this… this sang-froid[1] turned my stomach. Perhaps I winced, or my face reflected my unease, for Watson looked troubled, briefly then he said;

"This is nothing Holmes." His eyes met mine, solemn. "I could leave if you'd like?"

"No, no, of course not Watson. I just… You do this often?" I could not even fathom Watson doing this multiple times.

"Holmes." He smiled sadly and somewhat bitterly at my own ignorance. "Many times have I done so." And for an instant, his eyes looked haunted and pained… And I thought, glassy with tears.

But he drew through the needle once more with surety, no pain reflected on his face.

And I turned away, for I could not bear this.

_**"Yet if I speak, my pain is not relieved; and if I refrain, it does not go away."**_

...Job 16:6

[1] – Sang-froid is the French expression which as near to literally translated means 'cold blood', however which actually refers to having the guts or steel to do something difficult.


	4. Grieves

**Title: **Grieves

**Author name:** DocJorgensen  
**Category**: Angst, Hurt/Comfort  
**Characters: **Sherlock Holmes, Dr. John Watson

**Ships: **none

**Rating:** K  
**Spoilers:** EMPT, if you really look for it. And you believe that Mary dies.  
**Summary: **Holmes learns of Watson's grief.

**DISCLAIMER:** Alas I do not own anything that I play with, rather ACD does, may he forgive me.  
**Author Notes:** A Continuation. I really am trying to do something that doesn't inspire tears in myself and my readers but as of yet I have not succeeded. Oh Well. Two plotlines twisted together in this fic and created something which has a common thread I hope???

_**Dedication:**__ To Mr. Mathes, for always making me laugh, especially right now, when I feel like #$, and just want a hug._

_God only cries for the living  
'Cause it's the living that are left to carry on  
And all the angels up in Heaven  
They're not grieving because they're gone  
There's a smile on their faces  
'Cause they're in a better place than they've ever known  
God only cries for the living  
'Cause it's the living that are so far from home._

…Diamond Rio, 'God Only Cries'

The night was dark and cold, the storm had yet to finish pouring down upon London, and since his patient was on the East Side, I did not dare to let him go alone. Watson is a disadvantage I would like to keep, I daresay.

The patient was a girl. Young. Six or seven. Her symptoms seemed to resemble scarlet fever but Watson seemed certain it was not. Fortunately Watson is more learned in these matters than I.

He looked saddened as he put away his tools, making periodic glances back towards the happy couple and young child, who were cheery in the thought that it was just a chill.

Even as we left the home of the young girl, Watson's sorrow did not pass, he walked slowly; his black medical bag seemed to weigh heavily upon him.

Mary. Mary had died … and so had his child. A child that would have been six or seven…

My gaze seemed to prompt him to speak and he said;

"For her there is hope, Holmes. But for others, just like her?..." His limp seemed more pronounced as we stepped through the twilight. Mist swept around us and I slowed, so as to make sure to stay with Watson.

"We all of us die, Watson." My words did not seem to comfort him and he seemed to stare through me, as if distracted or recalling. "It only remains that we learn the time and the place."

His blue eyes seemed to be filled with melancholy and with sad remembering, full of pain, I thought. And I reached out one hand to comfort him….but faltered as he said

"So have I learned Holmes, so have I learned."

He limped on, alone… Bowed, but not broken with grief.

"Live free or die, death is not the greatest evil."

…General John Stark, Motto of New Hampshire in the United States

[A/N]: I just realized, in rereading this that I did not do at all what I meant to. I was trying to show Holmes that Watson had grieved for him, but I just made it seem like Watson was grieving the child that he lost. Well, I can try again I suppose. I know. Songfic. But the quote was so perfect and I was, like, why the hell not? Sorry, been a rough day…week…


	5. Envied

**Title: **Envied

**Author name:** DocJorgensen  
**Category**: Angst, Hurt/Comfort  
**Characters: **Sherlock Holmes, Dr. John Watson, Mycroft Holmes

**Ships: **none

**Rating:** K  
**Spoilers:** None. Unless Mycroft is a spoiler?  
**Summary: **Mycroft speaks of his pain.

**DISCLAIMER:** May ACD forgive me for playing with his characters, may he rest in peace.  
**Author Notes:** A change, not Sherlock focused on Watson's pain but Mycroft's POV, focusing in on his own pain.

_**Dedication:**__ To SM, why can you never see? _

"A faithful friend is a sturdy shelter,

He who finds one, finds a treasure,

A faithful friend is beyond price,

No sum can balance his worth

A faithful friend is a life-saving remedy

Such as he who fears God finds,

For he who fears God behaves accordingly,

And his friend will be like himself."

…Sirach 6: 14-16

I have never had a reason to be covetous of Sherlock. Not when we were boys nor during our schooling.

Until now.

I am envious of Sherlock.

As an older brother, it is my duty to protect him, yet my desire to protect Sherlock is eclipsed and surpassed by my desire to have as a friend, Dr. John Watson. I dare not call him John.

Every time that Dr. Watson speaks to my brother, in that easy friendship that they possess, I feel a burning rage, a jealousy scorching at my insides. I want what Sherlock has. I cannot fault Dr. Watson, for 'tis his nature to be free with himself.

I would seek to possess him and secret him away, allowing him to peruse only my friendship.

I covet my brother's friend.

The strength of my passions, of my jealousy, reviles and repulses me. Yet it remains a steadfast heat within my chest, a pulse of utmost heat whenever the good Doctor speaks with another.

I have no claim upon him thus.

But would that I had a stalwart friend, bonded to me to and beyond death. Oh I saw how the Doctor grieved for my poor wretch of a Brother, the fool who does not appreciate the worth of his friend.

How I desire a friend who would whisper such words of consolation to me, to be my companion in a time of need, to croon comfort in my anguish and pain. Thus to relieve my solitude when I am alone.

Would that I had such a friend. Would that it was John.

But I deceive myself, it is not so. Though my youngest brother is named John.

I will never call him as such.

"We few, we happy few, we band of brothers"

…Shakespeare, Henry V, (IV, iii)


	6. Lamed

**Title: **Lamed

**Author name:** DocJorgensen  
**Category**: Angst  
**Characters: **Dr. John Watson, Sherlock Holmes

**Ships: **None

**Rating:** K  
**Spoilers:** None  
**Summary: **Sherlock thinks about the athlete Watson must have been.

**DISCLAIMER:** May ACD forgive me, alas I do not own anything.  
**Author Notes:** For some reason, this series is coming easier to me now. Enjoy this one, back in Holmes' POV. This is also NaNoWriMo spilloff, so if it isn't as good as the others, tell me. Also, is there some way to put a Victorian grammar check on Word, because the under slashes are getting really annoying?

_**Dedication:**__ To R. Thirkill, may she rest in peace. _

_Smart lad, to slip betimes away  
From fields were glory does not stay  
And early though the laurel grows  
It withers quicker than the rose._

_Eyes the shady night has shut  
Cannot see the record cut,  
And silence sounds no worse than cheers  
After earth has stopped the ears:_

_Now you will not swell the rout  
Of lads that wore their honours out,  
Runners whom renown outran  
And the name died before the man._

…_.A.E. Housman, "To An Athlete Dying Young"_

Sometimes I think that Watson deserved to die, to be allowed to succumb to the cool darkness of death, peace, instead of lingering on, always half wounded.

Lamed.

I now no longer think that. It is not pity which overwhelms me, but gratitude.

This was the man who was willing to hunt in the dark, strange alleyways of London with me for murderers, thieves and rapists. Despite the limp and the wound in the shoulder that would never really heal, the constant pain that was his only true companion.

Watson puts aside his pain for me, putting on a brave face in the call of duty. But I know better.

I see the cool compresses that he applies after we had sprinted after a thief one night, the way he pretends to sleep in the morning after a fist fight in a side street, because he knows that he will not be able to manage the stairs, without crying out in pain at the cramps and weakness in his leg.

I look at Watson and I am regretful, not pitying. Watson very rarely speaks of the rugby he once played so well, the horse riding that he enjoyed, the fencing and boxing of his youth. These things are gone for him. Forever.

Even still, I see the shame in his eyes, the embarrassment that makes him blush, when he cannot walk as fast as myself. Or the anger that makes him swear as the soldier he still is as he realizes that the man he cannot reach because of his crippled leg will be shooting me.

And there is nothing he can do about it.

There is no denying that he is lamed. But that does not make him any less the soldier, or any less a man.

His weakness has made him strong.

"_Gentlemen, you must pardon me. I have grown old in the service of my country and now find that I am growing blind." …George Washington, quoting Cato, 1783._


	7. Just

**Title: **Just

**Author name: **DocJorgensen  
**Category**: Angst,  
**Characters: **Sherlock Holmes, Dr. John Watson

**Ships: **None

**Rating:** K  
**Spoilers:**  
**Summary: **Holmes reflects on Watson's sense of justice.

**DISCLAIMER:** I own naught, alas. Sir Arthur, forgive my sacrilege in playing with your beloved characters.  
**Author Notes:** This is a direct response to the massacre at Fort Hood, where my sister Julie and her husband are currently serving. I am not even certain it really falls into the angst category either. Also partially inspired by 'Gallipoli' with Mel Gibson, the end of which is heart-breaking and 'The Lost Battalion'.

_**Dedication:**__ For the soldiers of Fort Hood, who should be safe at home._

_"I tremble for my country when I reflect that God is just, and that His justice cannot sleep forever."_  
…**Thomas Jefferson**

"**Who are you to be judge, court and hangman, Holmes?"**

"**I know what is right, Watson! I am certain of it!" Surely even as Bohemian as I am, I still know the difference between good and evil. **

"**Do not dare to play god, Holmes." Watson growled, his anger making his eyes cold, his fingers clenched into fists, so tightly they were turning white.**

"**And if I will?" I tempted fate. **

"**I will not suffer any man who dares to play god." His hand went subconsciously to his shoulder and he shifted his weight off of his injured left leg.**

"**Even you, Holmes." He paused, sighing in weariness and his anger went out of him in a rush. He seemed… tired, old and gray. I was sorry I had tested him so. **

"**Too many good men have died for men who play at gods." He finished, tucking his revolver away and left me, standing over a helpless man, with a knife at his throat. **

**My nature had been tempted to kill this man, who had dared to threaten Watson, who had come too close with his threats. But my heart was saddened and troubled and I tarried no longer than to see that Lestrade would take the man in.**

**I was in troubled contemplation as I went to Baker Street. Who had used Watson as a means to an end? What had he suffered? I fear I shall never know. Yet, I am not sure that I wish to. **

**But as for me, I will abide by Watson's justice. He is just, this one, who shall never play at gods. **

_God judgeth the righteous, and God is angry with the wicked every day. If he repent not, he will whet his sword; he hath bent his bow, and made it ready.  
--Psalm 7:11,12_


	8. Alluring

**Title: **Alluring

**Author name:** DocJorgensen  
**Category**: Humour, Friendship, Family.  
**Characters: **Dr. John Watson, Sherlock Holmes, Mycroft Holmes

**Ships: **None

**Rating:** K  
**Spoilers:** None  
**Summary: **The Holmes Brothers observe Watson's appeal

**DISCLAIMER:** I wish I could win them all in a poker game. But I can't, so ACD please forgive me. Particularly for not being able to play whist.  
**Author Notes:** This one amused me. *Smirk*. And not angst for once.

_**Dedication:**__ To Conway Twitty, may he rest in peace. [He inspired this chapter.]_

_"I would not tell them too much," said Holmes. "Women are never to be entirely trusted,--not the best of them." _

…_The Sign of Four, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle_

Social situations are particularly abhorrent to me, but as Mycroft was attending and had asked, or rather ordered me to go, I went. It is best to obey Mycroft when he orders, as the consequences are not worth the bother of rejecting.

That is why I stand, uncomfortably in a corner with my drink, trying to avoid any woman who wished to dance with the Famous Sherlock Holmes. Bah! To dance? With a woman? Absurd.

A man of large girth sidled up to me.

"Brother Mycroft." I greeted him.

"Sherlock. I somehow doubt that the women will be all aflutter over you tonight." He intoned, sipping from his glass of champagne, his grey eyes alight with amusement and pleasure. "Bringing Doctor Watson was an excellent tactic, I applaud you."

"Surely you do not think my motives so base?" I said, amusement making my former annoyance dissolve away. Mycroft chuckled at my rejoinder, as near to banter as I ever was.

"I do, Sherlock. They stalk as if a pack of wolves to a defenseless hare!" Mycroft raised one eyebrow and gestured with his wine glass. Hiding a smirk, I watched my poor Watson. Ladies of all sorts, younger and older, cavorted for his attentions, making sly touches to his person, flirting and generally making a mockery of themselves.

But it was Watson's obvious discomfort with the situation, in particular one woman who was presenting herself shamelessly to him, touching him in an entirely improprietous fashion, which at last broke my reserve. I threw back my head, and gave a roar of mirth.

"Perhaps my motives are base. But I pray, Watson will forgive me for it. I had my own sanity to consider." Mycroft laughed, deeply.

"You are ever amusing, Sherlock. But you will save our brother from that gaggle of woman at some point, I trust?" I nodded to Mycroft's inquiry, and Mycroft shifted himself, disturbing the bulk of woman clustered around Watson and smirking, gently patted the good Doctor's shoulder. He melted back into the crowd and I settled back, watching the proceedings with amusement.

Women were attracted to Watson even more than they were attracted to me. Perhaps it was the ramrod straight military bearing or his obvious good breeding. Or his gallantry, for Watson was nothing if not a gentleman.

Although I did hear some of the woman muttering about the 'life in his blue eyes', 'strength in those hands', 'his handsome face' and 'width of his broad shoulders'.

I shuddered; thankful it was Watson, and not myself who attracted their special treatment.

"_For the lips of a strange woman drop as an honeycomb, and her mouth is smoother than oil: But her end is bitter as wormwood, sharp as a two-edged sword. Her feet go down to death; her steps take hold on hell." _

…_Proverbs 5:6_


	9. Unafraid

**Title: **Unafraid

**Author name:** DocJorgensen  
**Category**: Angst, Friendship  
**Characters: **Sherlock Holmes, Dr. John Watson

**Ships: **None

**Rating:** K  
**Spoilers: **None.  
**Summary: **Holmes thinks about Watson and his bravery.

**DISCLAIMER:** Alas, I own nothing.  
**Author Notes:** I'm getting a bit stunted on this series, so I dabbled in All Creatures Great and Small for a while. Then I came back. I'm still not really happy with this one, but I can't really deny an update much longer.

So, cheers!

_I found myself thinking about President William McKinley, the third American president to be assassinated. He lived for several days after he was shot, and toward the end, his wife started crying and screaming, 'I want to go, too! I want to go, too!' And with his last measure of strength, McKinley turned to her and spoke his last words: _

_**'We are all going.'**_

…_Looking for Alaska, __John Green_

* * *

In the beginning of my fond and prolonged friendship with Dr. Watson, I found myself, in one particular aspect of his being, confused, perplexed and otherwise bewildered.

That is to say, I the great Sherlock Holmes, could not ascertain why my Watson was so very fool heartily, foolishly courageous.

He, a man whose limbs ached with service to his Queen and country, whose very mind was yet troubled, and still he was willing return whence into danger, with myself as his only companion.

I had no fears for myself, for I was as hale and hearty as any man, logically, I had as good a chance, if not better with my baritsu skills, and those of my cane and bare fists.

But I came to understand.

The Battle of Maiwand, had instilled not a lack of fear in my good friend, but an understanding of it.

He had heard the screams of death upon the wind, the scent of blood mixed with dust, the sight of grown men stricken and dying, pleading for quick release, lying as so much garbage.

This was his teacher.

Death was his teacher.

And thus he accepted that he was going to die, as we all are, and fought bravely because of it.

He understood that he might die, and fully embraced that he could, not withholding anything of himself in self-preservation.

He accorded me the same rights that he had once given to Queen and to country, that I had his loyalty even unto death.

His or my own, it did not matter to my Watson.

Such duty, such fealty.

Such courage in the face of fear and in the face of pain.

My Watson was a warrior, unafraid.

* * *

_"It is well, I die hard, but I am not afraid to go."_

…George Washington's Last Words [1732-1799]


	10. Dutiful

**Title: **Dutiful

**Author name: **DocJorgensen  
**Category**: Angst,  
**Characters: **Sherlock Holmes, Dr. John Watson

**Ships: **None

**Rating:** K  
**Spoilers:** I don't think any?  
**Summary: **Holmes reflects on Watson's sense of duty.

**DISCLAIMER:** I own naught, alas. Sir Arthur, forgive my sacrilege in playing with your beloved characters.  
**Author Notes:** I was reading Stephen Ambrose's book, Eisenhower and his Boys_, _and one of things he writes about was the duty that the men of the U.S. felt for fighting WW2. This is my response.

_**Dedication:**__**To Ike, may he rest in peace. **_

_**

* * *

  
**_

"_Alas for virtue, alas for the fidelity of ancient times, and a hand invincible in war!" Aeneid, by Vergil, Book VI, Lines 888-9 [Heu pietas, heu prisca fides invictaque bello dextera!]_

Every argument I could discern was against his going. His advanced age, his lameness… each and all.

Yet the damned, twice-blasted fool insisted.

His duty, he says.

Duty! My tongue spits, sneers the accursed word.

Even on the eve of his going, I cannot understand his logic, if there is any logic in it.

I am all but in a rage over the stupidity of my obviously mentally disturbed roommate.

Surely the slight warmth in my eyes is the weakness of my vision, and the faint tightness in my chest is just the cold seeping from the windows.

I can admit naught else.

He sleeps but fitfully, if the twitching of the floorboards is any indication. I would suspect old demons, never truly exorcised.

My fingers catch on the telegram Mycroft has sent only a few days before.

_Sherlock STOP Be sensible STOP Give regards to Doctor Watson STOP Mycroft STOP_

Be sensible he says.

I am aching with sensibility. And my mind cannot help but see out into the approaching darkness with grim, cold dread.

Duty will kill a man. A friend. A brother. I must be sensible of this.

Thus it is with great care and trepidation that I see him to the station, and perhaps for the last time he departs.

Then it is that I curse my tongue for the words it could not, would not utter, but Watson knew all along, and the desperate and muttered prayers to a God in whom I had not believed.

Duty will see him dead.

Duty will judge him the better man.

* * *

"_I only regret that I have but one life to lose for my country." _

–_Nathan Hale, 1755-1776_


	11. Sacrificial

**Title: **Sacrificial

**Author name:** DocJorgensen  
**Category**: Angst, Friendship  
**Characters: **Sherlock Holmes, Dr. John Watson

**Ships: **None

**Rating:** K  
**Spoilers: **None.  
**Summary: **Holmes thinks about Watson and how damn terrified he is.

**DISCLAIMER:** Alas, I own nothing.  
**Author Notes:** I'm getting a bit stunted on this series, but I will continue to update periodically. I really wasn't listening to Cher when I was writing this either. Enjoy.

_**Dedication:**__ To Mr. Splengler, for a very entertaining weekend. _

_

* * *

  
_

"_Greater love has no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends." _

_...Gospel of St. John 15:13_

Sometimes I have to scrutinize Watson carefully.

Sometimes I fear him. Or rather, I fear what he will do.

Oh I have no doubt of justness; the man could not be a more upright and good-standing citizen if he consciously tried.

No, Watson terrifies me.

He terrifies me in that I know that he places no value on his own life.

Self-sacrifice is one of his greatest and purest traits. Yet, this trait in particular is the one which gives me the greatest pause.

I know, indubitably, that a man of Watson's caliber is irreplaceable. A truer man, a fairer judge, a wiser soul I have never met.

What use logic, and deduction without his knowledge of men's hearts? What use a sword, if it is not sharp or a revolver without bullet?

With this sentiment, even Mycroft agrees, and I tell you thus, if I and my elder brother should be in agreement about anything, it is either Watson, or the end of which John spoke is indeed here.

But there is another reason that Watson's self-sacrificial qualities make me quake.

I have some knowledge of my limits, the end and breadth of my finite capabilities.

I perceive them, and I perceive the truth.

Without Watson, my end would come swiftly.

I dread to think that it might even be by my own hand.

With grim certainty, I know that I am not strong enough.

* * *

_Yet each man kills the thing he loves  
By each let this be __heard__,  
Some do it with a __bitter__ look,  
Some with a flattering word,  
The coward does it with a kiss,  
The brave man with a sword!_

…_Oscar Wilde, "The Ballad of Reading Gaol"_


	12. Known

**Title: **Known

**Author name:** DocJorgensen  
**Category**: Angst, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort  
**Characters: **Mycroft Holmes, Dr. John Watson

**Ships: **None

**Rating:** K  
**Spoilers: **The Final Problem  
**Summary: **Mycroft again, with Dr. Watson, while Sherlock is dead/gone.

**DISCLAIMER:** Alas, I own nothing.  
**Author Notes:** Enjoy, as I'm going to Europe for a week, and won't be posting anything for a while. I'm beginning to think that I should just label this as a Character Study of Watson.

_**Dedication:**__ "Steel True, Blade Straight", Sir Arthur. _

_

* * *

  
_

_"Though all the world betray thee,_

_One sword at least thy rights shall guard,_

_One faithful heart shall praise thee."_

…_T. Moore, "The Ministrel Boy"_

During that time of my brother's disappearance – I daresay it is not true to say his death, my relations with Dr. Watson and his wife Mrs. Watson became quite candid indeed.

Several times I took dinner with them, in their fair house, and it was I who regaled Dr. Watson with tales of Sherlock's escapades, it was I too, who held the burden of their safety – and their ignorance.

Sherlock's debt to me grew, perhaps, such that it could never be repaid.

It was I who eased Dr. Watson in his distress; it was I who helped him to bury my brother. The 'kindest' and 'wisest' man that he had ever known. I could not say the same, because of this _farce._

I cursed Sherlock for what he had done.

I learned that Mrs. Mary Watson had a twinkling bell like laugh and that her husband chuckled softly. That her eyes were warm and his gentle, and both accepting of a rotund gentleman who knew far too much. I grew to be quite fond of her sly wit and his pawky humour.

Curses and my brother's name came frequently to me lips, as I saw his _deception _ruin a good man. There was a hollow, a dark wound that even his wife's affection and my – dare I say it? – friendship could not heal.

My friendship did not burn so bright, nor so fiery as _even_ the death throes of the one that my brother and he had shared.

And I cursed my brother again.

But it was I who stood by Dr. Watson as Mrs. Watson was lowered into the grave, I who shared his grief at her headstone, and it was I who helped him to bury his infant son.

Not Sherlock.

It was I.

Thus it was our friendship that took on a different tone, from my brother's, from those Yarders that he called friend.

Not perhaps so exciting, but gentle and contented, with a comfort all of its own.

My brother's name and curses did not fall so frequently from my lips.

"_If a man does not make new acquaintances as he advances through life, he will soon find himself left alone. A man, Sir, should keep his friendship in constant repair." _

…James Boswell, _Life of Samuel Johnson_


	13. Kind

**Title: **Kind  
**Category**: Angst, Friendship  
**Characters: **Sherlock Holmes, Dr. John Watson

**Rating:** K  
**Spoilers: **None.  
**Summary: **Holmes thinks about Watson & why he is such a kind man.

**DISCLAIMER:** It all belongs to ACD, I'm afraid.  
**Author Notes:** Ah, it is rather good to be dipping my feet back into the SH fandom again.

"_On that best portion of a good man's life,  
His little, nameless, unremembered, acts  
Of kindness and of love."_

_-William Wordsworth, 'Tintern Abbey'_

Kindness is not a virtue with which I concern myself overmuch, for it has little to do with my line of work. A man may steal for love, or kill for justice, or lie for prudence's sake, but never from the twisted cords of his heart's kindness.

That I should direct myself for kindness' sake has never taken up residence in my mind's cupboards, for as with humility, I consider it much proclaimed and little preformed.

That is, until I met a man late from Afghanistan, who remains as considerate a friend, and as kind a man as I have chanced to meet.

Indeed, the beggars in the vicinity of Baker Street profited a great deal by my flat mate, for had the man a pound, he should have given away a guinea and thought nothing of it.

In my more youthful years, it was most astounding. For my mind, finely honed to see motive in mystery, and profit in mayhem, could see no point to it. For kindness is not a virtue by which a man profits. What on earth could he have possibly gained in return?

Kindness is not a common trait to the world of London. Despite the stilted, gentility of polite manners seen in every calling card perched accessibly in every fine townhouse; a kind man is indeed a rare creature in this cesspool.

But Watson, soldier he may have been, is equaled by no man in his kindness.

Do you not think it strange that a soldier should be the most kind of men?

It does not surprise me, but then again, there is little enough in this world that does.

For my powers of imagination are great, but they are not sufficient to conjure up the piercing sun of the desert, the smell of gunpowder hanging on hot air, the tang of blood so strong as to be tasted on the tongue.

To be defeated, and to be defeated in such a way, that there was only shame on both sides.

I cannot imagine it, but Watson has seen it. He does not speak of it, and would never speak of it, for he is a kind man, and kind men do not tell the horrors they have witnessed, or the hells they have endured.

But he is a kind man, and writes of love and enduring friendship, of justice and peace, of gentility and chivalry, because kind men can wish only for heaven, and will wish only for heaven.

No one of my acquaintance has ever said that kindness was among my virtues, nor would I have it said of me that I am. Nor do I hold fast to a particular creed, for the rational mind, rare as it might be, is sufficient proof for my belief in the Almighty.

For I am not a kind man, nor of a religious bent, but I too would wish for heaven, if only for Watson's sake.

"_But deep this truth impress'd my mind_

_Thro' all His works abroad,_

_The heart benevolent and kind_

_The most resembles God."_

_-Robert Burns, 'A Winter Night"_


	14. Wed

**Category: **Angst, Friendship**  
Rating: K**

**Characters: **Sherlock Holmes, Dr. John Watson/Mary Morstan  
**Summary: **Watson once deserted Sherlock Holmes for a wife.

**DISCLAIMER:** ACD may be out of copyright, but Holmes and Watson will always be his.

'Wed'

"_What therefore God hath joined together, let not man put asunder." – Mark 10:6-10_

As Watson has recorded, my first meeting with Miss Morstan was the prelude to the case ignominiously known by the romantic moniker of 'The Sign of Four.'

However, as she was a short sixteenth in an otherwise fascinating rhythm, I did not concern myself with her long. I had not thought much of her, and indeed my thoughts do not travel to her often, for above all else, she is a woman. But the case of Mrs. John Watson was a motif lingering in the echoes of my mind, for what was once a duet had become, quite unexpectedly, a trio.

I should say that Watson's marriage changed nothing about our partnership, for I but wired and he still came to join my cases. I should say that – but the fact was that Watson's marriage changed everything. There was always a counterpoint to our own melody, and I could not help but be aware of Mrs. Watson's presence between us, for Watson was contented always, and bore the easy signs of loving, conjugal bliss.

Who could have thought that the criminal element of London should be so conveniently subdued during the course of Watson's marriage? I say that Watson's marriage changed nothing, but it was I that changed everything, for I would not separate Watson from that which brought him such happiness. I could not deny that Mrs. Watson brought a peace that I never had to Watson's face, and what man does not want his friend to be so? I stole time as best I might and played to a _fermata_ that I only could hear, but still I vowed that Watson's measure of happiness with Mrs. Watson should be endlessly contained.

In the ultimate meeting between my great enemy and myself, I had held myself to die, content in the knowledge that this sacrifice would be my great _crescendo_, and that great heart of my friend would not be without solace, for Mrs. Watson was approaching confinement. There was never a man who strode this planet better suited to be a husband and father than Watson, and so our score should be concluded, both parts _fortissimo_.

But every great piece must have an _adagio,_ and there was only one thing sadder to me than the fact that Watson had deserted me for a wife, and that was that he should have to return to me, bereft. Despite the outward signs of his widowhood, he never spoke of her and I did not press, for even Lestrade – limited in perception as he was –heard the lingering, subdued _pianissimo_ notes of grief.

The irony does not escape me, for I had returned from the grave to a man who was dead. One may discover again and again that there are many ways to kill a man, but above all I do not doubt that to tear a man's heart is the cruelest.

But the theme lingers on, _tenuto_, haunting the thought and moving the soul when the music is gone. For Watson was bereaved and alone, but he was never without solace despite the _sotto _mood to his line of the music, for I know with the certainty of a dead man risen **t**hat something of ourselves is never gone away, have we but friends to remember us.

There is no pleasure in the knowledge that Watson's return to Baker Street was only caused by his widowhood, indeed, the flash of gold resting beneath the slim second knuckle of his third finger was a constant reminder of what might have been guilt, in a lesser man.

But as any third rate musician knows, much less one like myself, a theme in music does not end, but rather grows and blossoms, transfigured from dolor to ecstasy, changing as it will from utter sorrow to comfortable joy.

_For though the hand of Fate could force_

'_Twixt soul and body a divorce,_

_It could not sever man and wife,_

_Because they both lived but one life._

_-Richard Crashaw 'An Epitaph upon Husband and Wife'_


End file.
